


The Library - The Librarians

by 221A_brina



Series: Tales of The Library [4]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries, The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: ALL the 2017 Tropes, And we finally find out who Naomi Webster is, Crossover, Gen, Get set..., Gotta get this in, Had to make sure the house wasn't on fire, Hard to concentrate when the neighbors are trying to bomb your house with fireworks, I FINALLY did it!, Neuroses 'R Us, No – seriously, Or is that mash ups?, Otherwise I would have made it by midnight, Readers take your marks..., Seemed like a good fit, Shout out if I missed yours & you want in, Shout out when you see your name/handle, So why not - eh?, They're at it again, They're both Libraries after all, Trying my hand at more crossovers, Wave 'em like you just don't care, Wave your hands in the air, We finally find out Harris & Norton's full names, Whole lotta combos going on, and... GO!, but barely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 04:36:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13228197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221A_brina/pseuds/221A_brina
Summary: It's the end of the year and there's housekeeping aplenty at The Library.





	The Library - The Librarians

Year's end at The Library was always a busy time for its employees, but more so this year for Harris and Norton. This year had been a momentous one for a number of reasons. Among them, the biggest were: the acquisition of the Jack-O-Matic 5000X, the renovations and install of the newest equipment, and of course the year of tropes, which had its own set of demands – the last of which, the lads were flailing in their attempt to keep up with. With there being twelve months in the year, they had expected only the twelve tropes to deal with. Easy-peasy. Right? Nope. Of course not. But, then again, they'd grown accustomed to the irregularities of the MFMM world. After all, that was one of the many things that was oh, so charming about it, not unlike the lady whom this particular group centered around and found so utterly enchanting.  

Because of conversations on Slack and tumblr, a bonus trope was added in August by someone who was olderbynow, or should have been. Ok... 13 tropes then. Fine. Then September came around and the film Kickstarter campaign burst full-fledged onto the scene causing a fervor and uproar of excitement. For two years things had been lovingly strung along via tumblr and ficcing and Slacking, with no new canon in sight. This Campaign was a much-needed injection of the promise of more source material, which would, most thankfully keep operations at The Library busy for some time to come. Something Webster was grateful for; for herself, yes, but more so for her earnest and dedicated team. Without Harris and Norton, this branch of The Library would simply be an abandoned wing, gathering dust and cobwebs, the silence echoing through the dark halls and rooms. She shuddered to think of it, let alone allow it to take purchase in her thoughts. _No... best not to go there._  

When the Kickstarter Campaign was coming to a close, another bonus trope was added... thereby bringing the potential total to 14. But since it was October, the final number was still in limbo. By the time November rolled around, the total was up to 13. Just when they thought they were in the home stretch... the Queen of Angst (and fluff) Sidebar: Let it be known that despite the mumblings of a very vocal but lovely Mom [who spent her days making quilts, going to bible study, going to church and reading poems... lots and lots of poems] had protested that she (the aforementioned QofA), indeed does NOT write any fluff [case and point... aw, hell... Harris would know which one to cite. _Bugger all... I_ _don't_ _have time for that!_ _Now_ _where was I?_ ] _Ah,_ _yes_ _..._ the Queen of Angst declared December to be Amnesty month. _Amnesty_ _month_ _?_ _Aw_ _, hell!_ _Well_ _... not like the_ _lads weren't up for the challenge, eh?_ They always seemed to be almost a step ahead, if not right at the edge riding the wave of check-outs and returns. And to say that the Lab had been busy was an understatement. She sure didn't envy whoever was trying to keep track of a coherent tally of total fics, let alone fics per trope. At this point it was a tangled mess and it might take someone from 221A Baker Street or someone Who lived in Pooh Corner to figure it out. _Either way, not my problem. As long_ _as_ _we have m_ _ore serviceable volumes than damaged ones, I'm fine with it,_ she thought.  

Both Harris and Norton had been saddled with a number of new duties this year, so they had been putting in long hours, which were then followed by forced breaks. Naomi Webster knew that they practically ate, slept and breathed their jobs, but she wasn't willing to breach their limits. To do so would be to court disaster. It was best in those cases, when the strain was becoming evident – a snapped remark here, a short temper there - to make sure one of the pair took a day off whilst the other continued. Of course there would be protestations and complaints, but in the end, they each saw the wisdom of her decision, and trusted her to continue to keep things running smoothly over all. At times, when they were unaware of her presence, she would observe them as they went about their business, and found it utterly mesmerizing. She marveled at their symbiosis - it was a thing of beauty to behold. She silently raised a prayer to her kin for gifting her with the needed souls to continue her work ( _or w_ _as_ _it a mandate?_ she wondered). 

There had been an enormous number of changeovers thus far in the year, and at times, the back log was simply horrendous. The Library Association had been quite busy of late. There were numerous meetings, most of which were geared around next year's upcoming summer event. There had been conferences on acquisition management, contract negotiations and other related topics that took up their precious time, as well. Then, there was a sudden and unexpected change in the Executive Board. The President had quit, due to his waning interest in the job, despite having fulfilled 2 years and 9 months of a three-year term. ( _For_ _cripe's_ _sake..._ _ya_ _couldn't hold out_ _for three more months?_ Norton thought, exasperatedly.) He had to stepped up as Pro-tem President for the remainder of the term, as he currently occupied the position of VP. This had pulled his attentions away from the circulations desk, thereby adding to that glorious pile/backlog. 

Harris had been dealing with issues close to home, which ironically were far away. Far away from The Library, that is. His octogenarian father had broken his wrist whilst puttering around in his garden at home. (Something about being unsteady and catching his foot on an uneven paver and taking a header into the azalea bushes – ones that he himself had planted years before.) Fortunately, his brother Whitney lived nearby and was at their childhood home with their father when the incident happened. _Thank goodness for small miracles,_ he mused. His father had always been fiercely independent, even when his mother was still living. Mother had been gone for almost 25 years now. Dad was still getting around fairly well, despite his need to use a cane, which he stubbornly protested at times, his frustration evident, slightly masked under his humor. 

Naomi had been more than understanding when Harris reluctantly asked for time off. She knew how difficult it was for him to even get to the point of acknowledging he needed time off to deal with things, let alone have the guts to ask, so ingrained was his dedication to his work. Webster practically had to pack his bags and shove him out the door with reassurances that she and Norton would do their best to keep things running in his absence, and only with the promise of regular updates did she see the weight from his shoulders lessen. Long story short (Too late!) Harris' father had passed, and he and his brother had to deal with the ramifications of that, which included dividing up and selling their childhood home – their 'ancestral home' as they often referred to it. 

When he'd returned, after laying those parts of his personal life to rest, he dug deeper into his work at The Library, finding solace in the routine and comfort in his place in it. During his absence, Norton had done his best attempting to keep up with the constant influx, and Webster, more days than not, was side by side him in the trenches endeavoring to do what her team leader would. Some days they came out on top, others... not so much; but all told, things would even out in the end, right?

 

* * *

 

In the past several weeks, there had been something odd going on with the fire alarms and smoke detectors in The Library. There'd been a rash of false alarms - at least as far as they had been able to determine. The loud screech and pinging of a smoke detector bursting from somewhere deep in the stacks accompanied moments later by the loud jangling bells of the main fire alarm. This had been concentrated around one day, with a few last gasps on the following evening around closing. The security system was scoured, but video surveillance wasn't coming up with anything concrete. It was perplexing. 

Equally perplexing was, shortly thereafter, when Harris and Norton were returning volumes to the stacks, they would occasionally find small piles of what seemed like ash – the remnants of burned paper where a volume was supposed to be. When they went to the card files to cross check which volume was supposed to be housed in the location they found the ash, there was a corresponding sliver of ash where the reference card should be. The thing that was even more curious, was that the volumes and cards on either side of the ash remnants were completely untouched. How was it that a single card or volume could seemingly go up in flame, but not affect its surroundings? The cleaning crew had bagged and tagged everything for further investigation. Needless to say, they'd been busy for the better part of a couple of weeks every time a new ash pile was discovered. And they definitely weren't sure what to make of all these little signs of fire (of which, they had found at least 23). 

Webster had disappeared for several days to consult the in-house specialist. When she had returned, she had determination in her demeanor, a skip in her step and, if you looked very closely, perhaps the slightest twinkle in her eye. But with her somewhat mercurial nature, one never knew. 

It was late on a cool crisp evening mid-December, and Harris was neck deep in his work. Instead of his usual station at the circulations desk, he was quite literally (no, really) neck deep in books in one of the lower level labs. He was sitting at (well, more like slumping over) a work station surrounded by piles of volumes stacked precariously high, and well over the level of his head. (See... literally.) His shift had ended hours ago, but something had been itching at the far edges of his consciousness. Something didn't sit right. Something felt wrong, felt... off. Norton had felt the same, and they'd made a joint decision to investigate. Norton was home cross-checking their combined database (yes... Norton and Harris had created their own database of authors and volumes. A kind of vault of hidden and sacred texts, if you will.  But let it be known, they were, most certainly, NOT a cult!) 

The long hours had caught up with him, which was why he was face down, snortling softly, and the slightest bit of drool escaping the corner of his lips. An unknown noise disturbed his light unintentional slumber, causing him to jerk upwards, eyes wide, unfocused and blinking. He brought his hands to his face to rub the sleep away, and his hands came away covered in glitter. "Aww... crap," he lamented. "It's going take forever to get this out of this volume," he said to the empty room. He reached his hand to swipe his forehead, not realizing until too late that he'd managed to streak the menace across his forehead. "Thisz isz complete 'nzanity," he mumbled as he arched his brows skyward. _Well... at least I'll be ready for disco night at the club in town, eh?_ He unthinkingly wiped his hand on his trousers, then rolled his eyes and yawned. "Well... now that I'm up, best take a break and wash up, then." As his brain climbed towards consciousness he thought, _Hmmm_ _... think I'll put this one with that First Edition_ _of_ _Midsummer_ _Night's Dream_ _we have. Be a pretty addition to the PUG/POD* department._  

Harris stretched his arms and legs, feeling slightly scrugzy, and carefully extricated himself from his self-created cocoon of volumes. He yawned again, and began to trudge into the hallway where he thought the restroom might be. Not having been to this particular lab with any regularity, he wasn't familiar with the layout of this level. Maybe after leafing through some more books, he might rustle up a cup (or thermos) of tea. (Hopefully the lounge down here would have an electric tea kettle, as he loathed drinking tea in which the water was  _{shudder}_ microwaved.) He exited the lab and headed down the hallway towards a door that seemed to have a light leaking from around its outer edges. Figuring that was a good place to start, he continued in that direction. Another yawn snuck up on him, causing his eyes to close as he grasped the doorknob. As he turned it, and opened his eyes, an all-encompassing frisson of electricity suffused his body as he stepped through the doorway... 

And into a unique, yet comforting room. Directly across the room was a curved staircase, its wall a continuous set of card catalogue drawers (he was drooling already). Above his head, was a 3-D illuminated projection of the globe, hovering and spinning ever so slightly on its axis. In the center of the room, were two worktables; one was chest height, and the second more of a very large desk with a wooden rolling chair tucked into its underside. A great many items were scattered atop the work spaces.

On the chest high table: a large old book, ( _a scrapbook,_ _perhaps?_ ) full of newspaper clippings and drawings sat opened in the center. Littered around its edges were a number of items including an old candlestick telephone, a lamp made of darkened and worn piping in the shape of a U-bend, a stylized magnifying glass/stand unit, a couple of daggers of varying design (he was pretty sure one was a Toledo dagger), a jOlly little kiwi (a bird, not the fruit. Or was it a Jay? Ornithology was never his forte - for all he knew, it could be a sparrow), a number of ornate vintage boxes and several of books of varying ages. 

The desk boasted a number of well-worn tomes that looked to be anywhere from ancient to modern in manufacture. It also housed a pair of well-patinaed binoculars (or opera glasses - at first glance he wasn't sure which), a miniature globe, a model of  a solitary (motor?) cycle, a model of an airplane - circa WWII, a crystal sphere that gave off a bright blue glow, and what looked to be two halves of a (broken) golden seal. 

Harris was bewildered by his surroundings, and quite unsure of where he was. He thought he was alone, when a noise came from the direction of the archway to his left. It almost sounded like there might be a kid in the hall, but when he turned, he saw a very tall, salt-and-pepper haired, stern-looking, bow-tied fellow in a Harris tweed (he laughed when he recognized the pattern – _wouldn't_ _ya_ _know, eh?_ ) jacket. His voice was gruff as he gave a cursory glance towards Harris as he approached the tall table.  

"Ahh... William Henry Harris," he said, consulting the clipboard in hand. "I wondered when you might find your way down here. It's about time. Well..." He chuffed, when he realized what he'd said, and waggled his head back and forth, brows momentarily spiking upwards. "Actually... it **is** about time... in a manner of speaking. Sesh... uh... Ms. Webster should have sent you down a little over a week ago, but no matter. You're here now. Let's get on with it, shall we?" 

**Author's Note:**

> *PUG/POD (aka PT) - A section in The Library for special editions and volumes. PUG/POD = Put Under Glass/Put On Display (aka Princess Treatment – like Snow White in her glass coffin).


End file.
